


straight through 'til morning

by shepherd



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Original Character Death(s), World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shepherd/pseuds/shepherd
Summary: It was raining still – had been, for hours now, and when Ignis’ hand grasped Talcott’s it was slick, clammy. His nails were torn and bitten down to the quick. Raindrops beaded his face like tears.“Please,” he whispered, and Talcott couldn’t bear to be cruel.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	straight through 'til morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musterings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musterings/gifts).

> written for this post ages ago on twitter : "i need to sleep and have to be up early but here I am thinkin about WoR gladnis with iggy pickin up tags from dead bodies wherever he goes and tryin to make sure that they don't say gladio's name on em good night"
> 
> i slept terribly thanks

It was raining still – had been, for hours now, and when Ignis’ hand grasped Talcott’s it was slick, clammy. His nails were torn and bitten down to the quick. Raindrops beaded his face like tears.

“Please,” he whispered, and Talcott couldn’t bear to be cruel.

They were sinking into the mud together. Other hunters hurried into their bunks or cowered in their trucks as they waited for the storm to pass. Dave stood sour and saturated on his watch, high on the ramparts doing his duty with a little less pride than before. Business as always – running from the cruelty of nature.

Talcott’s boots were on loan. They were a few sizes too big and he feared he might become stuck. The laces were fraying and stained with mud and not even three pairs of socks seemed enough to protect him. It was a miserable day and the rain flattered his hair, obscuring his vision. Ignis’ scarred face was barely visible. Perhaps, Talcott thought, it was better that way for them both.

“Mr,” Talcott began and swallowed. “Mr Scientia.”

That mouth slacked. That grip tightened in recognition. Pale eyes were hidden by those dark wrap around shades. “Please,” he said again, a horrible gasping plea and Ignis held something out for him.

They were both alone. Miss Highwind had left him to stay for the day as she hunted, eager to wet her lance truly after weeks of helping him pour over wires and worn old kits trying to keep the power running. It had been long and tedious. Tempers flared. And there was nothing to show for all that frustration, bar Mr Prompto’s tense shoulders and the Marshal knocking a hole in the wall when he thought the coast was clear and no one would see his anger.

They all needed time to breathe, alone. For some that meant a few hours in the bright lights of civilisation. For others it meant blood and the dying cries of a demon.

Not for the first time Talcott stood helpless. It would not be his last.

Chunks of metal rest in Ignis’ palm. Rusted or charred, chipped or dented it was all the same. Dog tags, Talcott knew, and the sight alone was enough to make him sick.

“Please,” Ignis said and the tears fell in earnest.

“Shit,” Talcott said and flushed in fear of a scolding still. He took Ignis’ hand with his palm against those bare knuckles. He was frozen. His hands bore a tremor. He had never seen Ignis cry – not once, not even when they stumbled back from – _missing their king_ \- “Where’d you get these?”

“All over the ground,” Ignis said in a muddle and shoved them hard at Talcott’s chest. “I need to – I need you to-”

“Okay, okay,” he said and let Ignis hastily tip them into his hand. One slipped through the gap between his fingers and fell into the muck. Hearing it Ignis hissed a curse, hands swiping at nothingness. “Hey, it’s okay, I can-”

Ignis dropped to his knees. The mud gave a sickening squelch and he groped for the tag, squeezing fistfuls of the damp earth. It slipped out of his grasp and taunted them both. It avoided Ignis’ grasp for too long – those hands became frantic, caring little for his ruined trousers and the mud that caught beneath his ruined nails.

“Mr – it’s okay, it’s okay,” Talcott yelped. With a glance he could see the whole damn camp staring, safe under doorways or their faces at windows. Some even stopped and became soaked through just to watch the man who fell desperate to his knees and the child who tumbled beside him. His hands sunk into the mug to salvage a treasure neither of them wanted and Talcott felt ready to gag at the feeling, at the awful atmosphere between them.

His fingertips chanced the metal. He clutched the other handful close. “I got it,” he said, and the rain was coming down in droves. Attempting to steady himself with his boots deep in the muck Talcott touched Ignis’ shoulder. It ached when the man flinched, nostrils flaring. “C’mon.”

Ignis remained crouched. Chest rising and falling harshly, jaw tense, he held his arms over his belly like he was wounded. His miserable expression was gut-wrenching.

Talcott’s hands flexed, itching. The tags were sodden and smeared, unreadable. He swept a thumb over one. Aviticus, it read, and the weight of a name was another chain dragging them down beneath the darkest depths. Talcott wished he were young again, naïve to hauntings such as these.

Their trousers were heavy and weighed so far down Talcott could barely raise his feet. Ignis was a silhouette in the downpour. The cold air took his breath away. “Where did you get these,” he asked again, voice almost stolen by the winds.

Ignis inhaled unsteadily. “A Midgardsormr,” he said, warbling. A hand rubbed weakly at his own face, almost opaque. His veins were bright blue. The storm had made his clothes sheer and they clung to his lean frame. A king’s advisor had never looked so small. “Long before I got there. A hunter gave them to me, but – they’re _city folk_ names, she said. Threw them at me and told me they were cowards, who all deserved to die, that she hated them all.” Ignis hiccupped and his whole frame jolted. “I need to know. Talcott, please.”

It was almost impressive how long a human being could hold onto a grudge. Six damn years since darkness had swept over the lands and still, they bickered amongst each other. Talcott could blend in with the rest of them, long since grown out of his good clothes and losing that innocent city plumpness. Thickening his accent was easy. He could be anyone. Ignis bore no such luck – aristocratic, proud, and his scars made him instantly recognisable. The King’s man, brought low.

Some welcomed the men of Insomnia. Most shunned them. But Meldacio could always spare a roof and a scrap of meat for the king’s chosen and Talcott smiled to assure himself.

People still stared. Quiet tears still fell.

They could both have used the warmth of kindness. A meal and good companionship would do them the world of good – and then a change of clothes, a bath if the gods smiled upon them this once.

Talcott reached forward and nudged Ignis’ elbow. “Let’s get you warmed up first,” he said, hoping it would spark even a small smile.

Instead Ignis sank deeper into desperation. He fumbled for him and panicked hands founds Talcott’s wrist and held tight enough to bruise, “I need to know,” he insisted. “I need to know if Gladio lives still.”

“Shit,” Talcott said again, winded at the mere mention of a long-lost name, and Ignis’ grip clenched tighter as if terrified he might pull away.

If the world was cold, thoughts of Mr Amicitia – Gladio - made it a little wider, a little scarier. Talcott knew his uncles tried to make the world less unknown to him, less frightening and had always done so since he had lost his grandfather. As much as it had isolated him not being in the know – and still did, when the Marshal decided that some truths were too cold for a boy of only fifteen, hypocritical as it seemed – in another way Talcott understood. So young. Talcott was their last baby. The Marshal could no longer bring back a handful of sweets from the market for him. Mr. Prompto could no longer ruffle his hair.

Talcott was almost a man grown, though he struggled with it in the constant darkness. And the absence of more – Auntie Monica and Uncle Dustin were a rare sight nowadays on opposite ends of the country embroiled in the hunt for answers. Sometimes Ignis joined them. No matter how Talcott begged and pleaded, threatened and sulked he was never permitted to follow. He was one of the left behind, a shut away destined for the dull existence of a child with few of the comforts – and the weight of a gun at his side.

Gladio had been there. For a while, at least. In the city Talcott remembered him as a constant, a man who blotted out the sun and smiled just brightly. In the early days when he was new to the manor, shying away and sticking close to his grandfather, the Amicitia heir was terrifying. Loving letters from his parents promised that the family was kind, kind enough to take in the grandchild of a retainer whose parents had fallen on difficult times, hard enough that they would both pass within the year.

And they had been – Iris had accepted him like a sibling with ease, almost desperate to have a baby in the family so she would no longer be teased. Gladio had been what Talcott feared most alongside Lord Clarus – but Lord Clarus often had a kind word for them, a tired smile and Gladio had liked to ruffle his hair. He laughed often. They played catch, caught movies, ate the same meals.

A brother, in everything but blood.

Now he was gone. It had been weeks. At least Talcott thought it might have been – it was hard to tell now.

It started as day or two, here and there. He would venture out beyond the safety of hastily risen walls and Ignis’ jaw would clench tight. There were no words said in public but there was little room to hide secrets. Everyone could hear the bitter fights. As much as they pretend otherwise, they could all hear Ignis’ spitting anger and Gladio’s defeat, all the upset and pain between. In the pitch black morning as the longest winter dragged on, they no longer pretended to present a united front. Gladio would disappear for a day on hunter business, then two. A third, if the fight raged for hours. Ignis would say nothing. Then once Gladio returned, as if to make a statement, Ignis would leave to assist his father in whatever work was available and Gladio would explode in a fit of fury and tear up their roots again.

At best he would ghost for a week. Gods only knew what he would do then – cleave through demons, play delivery boy, work side by side with the women of the power plant. Either way they would be no trace of him and Ignis would remain stoic and silent until Gladio chose to drift back. Still tense, still bitter. But the anger would simmer with time, and they would make up, talk it through and eat breakfast together like they were family again – at least until the cycle repeated itself.

A week of silence and then a homecoming. Then one more week, and then two, a little more. An awful stretch of silence.

Now it had been closer to months. Iris lived permanently in Lestallum now, earning her keep with her blade and her quick wits. Perhaps Gladio lived there with her. But Talcott knew better. Iris would not let Ignis live in fear. The Amicitia left voids** – **an aching hole where courage once lay. The family name went unspoken but the memory lingered and Talcott was sure that just like him, Ignis thought of and worried about them each day.

Talcott had not considered the possibility that Gladio’s dog tag would lie abandoned, battered but stormy weather, lost in a riverbed. Gladio gone, a ghost amongst countless others. The thought was sobering.

“Alright,” Talcott said and fumbled for the tags. Smearing the mud free, the engravings were just about readable. Some had missing letters. One missed an entire surname. The hunters motto was left intact on each.

It was hard to see through the rain. It remained harsh and their audience had thankfully, finally lost in interest. They shut doors, closed windows, and waited for a light and warmth that seemed like it would never come.

There were five. Tiny, surprisingly heavy. Aviticus, he saw again, and wondered who they had been. Maybe there was family out there losing hope of a safe return. Or there was no one. A hunter’s life could be lonely. Their tags were one with their bodies, until they became an extension. A memorial, and Talcott wondered if they were to lay in repose. He had never asked what Dave did with them. A small part of him was curious and the rest, the shreds of his common sense, told him he didn’t want to know.

“Aviticus,” Talcott said aloud and Ignis flinched – his brows furrowed and his mouth sharply downturned. With the flatness of his hair against his skull and his clothes against his slender form he stood gaunt. He listened intently and as Talcott cleared another of muck he demanded, “Who else?”

A woman, fallen in darkness. “Freya,” he read, and held her close to his heart. “Redan. Gillas,” he murmured and with each his fear only seemed to grow. Five hunters fallen against one beast. It was hard to wonder what might bring an Amicitia to their knees.

Talcott rubbed the last obscure name with his thumb. It was long. Gladiolus, his mind unhelpfully supplied. Talcott’s traitorous brain told him he could feel the curves, the dot, and put himself out of his misery.

Distantly he thought he heard the rumble of thunder. It trembled through his chest, dislodging his heart, and ached.

Relief came for a few spare moments. It didn’t last for long. Talcott gave a shaky exhale.

Ignis looked ready to implode. “Who,” He demanded to know, a bite in his warbling voice. “Who is it?”

Talcott closed his hand around the tags. They were freezing in his palm. “Valdemar,” he said and Ignis didn’t react. “Not Mr Amicitia. None of them were. It’s okay.”

A heartbeat. That long moment was filled with nothing but the rain. Ignis’ breath finally caught, chest seizing, and he covered his face with one hand, ashamed. The hand which steadied his visor shook.

“Thank you,” he said weakly. He sniffed hard and Talcott started when tears quickly trickled from beneath the lenses. His bulletproof dignity seemed to lay in tatters. His mouth formed words that refused to come and every part of him wavered. He was younger, smaller, sodden through with water and filth. Ignis once stood high above all – now, he shrank. “I thought…” he trailed off and hung his head. His grief went unspoken.

There was no relief. There was no such thing. Gladio was still a phantom, impossible to capture, nothing but whisps of smoke to their desperate hands. But any demon could chance a lucky hit – exposure or starvation could kill him as true as any claws, death at his own hand or another’s. It didn’t bear thinking about, but it couldn’t not circle Talcott’s overactive mind.

Amicitia’s bore enough scars. So did the Leonis’, so did the sole Hester son. Talcott did not know how much longer they could carry on twisting, breaking, aging. It was enough despair for a thousand lifetimes. He knew they faced more yet.

Ignis heaved a great miserable breath. His lips were bitten until they bled. “I’m sorry.”

Talcott stood silently. Cold had begun to seep into his skin.

Pale, soaked hands rubbed hard at Ignis’ own face. Talcott saw the sickening grey web of scarring, staring at the base of his ring finger and arcing, spinning like cobwebs, spirals finally fading out into nothing at his wrist. Talcott had yet to look at it and not feel strange, like there was a tingle of anxious magic in his blood. “I’m sorry to ask, but… have you heard from Iris…?”

His name went unspoken. It hung almost as heavy as the tags Ignis himself wore. Talcott wondered if it unbearably so, if they weighed more now than the day Dave gave them to Talcott’s last remaining family, as if he had any left to lose. “No,” Talcott said, and Ignis had not ceased his tears.

In a valiant and unsuccessful attempt at pulling himself together, Ignis scrubbed hard at his own face. He grimaced. The tension between them was stagnant, as thick and tough as the mud.

Talcott was a kid. Just a kid, and he wanted to go home. Cape Caem was warm and had been so bright. There were blankets and cushions and the Marshal had even set up a little basketball hoop for him. Uncle Dustin had made them hot chocolate when they could scrounge up the cocoa powder.

They had been forced to abandon it once the power finally failed and Gladio had snatched him and ran, pulling Ignis alongside and guiding Iris forward. They were barefoot and panicked. A night amongst the stones of the haven seemed the coldest of his life. After the Citadel the world was too large. Every shadow was too deep. Talcott tossed and turned on the haven they called home for the night, silently crying for the grandfather he had left behind – again - and his only consolation was the arm that wrapped around him.

Gladio pulled him close, sacrificing his jacket to drape over Talcott’s small frame. It hadn’t been so cold after that – Talcott could rest, even dream and even when he woke to a sunless day weeks later the fear wasn’t so intense when he was around.

But he couldn’t afford to be that kid anymore. Gladio was gone, and Ignis in tatters. Talcott could no longer stand by. They couldn’t lose more.

When he touched Ignis’ shoulder the man flinched. It was close to impossible to gauge his expression with his visor but Ignis was drawn taut, painfully rigid. He drew his lips back, like a wounded and startled animal baring his fangs. But it was weak, feeble, and he looked half drowned.

“We should get out of the rain,” Talcott murmured and his other hand graced Ignis’ wrist, stark and bony. Ignis’ harsh exhale was barely audible through the rainfall. “We’ll catch a cold.”

There was no protest. Ignis said nothing and permitted Talcott to pull him along, not even reacting as they both fought to pull their feet from the mud. For an awful moment Talcott thought he might have to sacrifice his boots. “Where are you staying?”

Ignis hung his head. “I don’t have anywhere tonight,” he murmured, and Talcott hurt.

“We’ll find somewhere,” he promised, “together,” and Ignis could not smile.


End file.
